


Some Kind of Experiment

by BowlOfGlow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, Established Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, consensual voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 15:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4185462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BowlOfGlow/pseuds/BowlOfGlow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John blinked at him. He opened his mouth, then closed it again with a slow exhale.</p><p>“You want to watch as I get myself off?” he finally asked.</p><p>Sherlock shrugged. “If you must put it so crudely.”</p><p>John had a sudden vision of Sherlock in a lab coat, sitting in a chair beside his bed with a pen and a notebook, watching intently as John lay naked on the bed. The image was equally ridiculous and terrifying.</p><p>“Would that be some kind of experiment?” he asked.</p><p>“No-o-o,” Sherlock drawled, after an almost imperceptible pause that told John the idea had been contemplated and still held a certain appeal. “No experiments. I’d be merely… observing.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Kind of Experiment

After sharing a flat with Sherlock for roughly two years, John had become used to the odd non-sequiturs, the convoluted monologues, the abrupt revivals of discussions he’d thought long-abandoned. However, when entering the kitchen in the morning he’d never been greeted with a blunt: “Did you masturbate last night before going to sleep?” 

John turned towards Sherlock, who was sitting at the table with a microscope and a few beakers, already dressed (or still dressed, more likely). He stared as John blinked in confusion, waiting for the statement to sink in. Since John wasn’t completely awake yet , the process took a few seconds. Really, John thought, if Sherlock was going to spring such unexpected questions on him, he could at least wait until after John'd had some coffee.

“I did,” John replied, tentatively, thinking of the night before. There had been some adrenaline-fueled touching and kissing following the excitement of a chase, and that had left John inconveniently wound up. Sherlock hadn’t mentioned it and neither had John, who’d simply taken care of the matter himself after retiring to his bedroom for the night. It hadn’t been long since they had moved to friends to… whatever it was they were now. They had talked about sex – not much actually, but enough for John to know that while Sherlock wasn’t repulsed by sex, it wasn’t something he had any interest in pursuing. He seemed to enjoy kissing on rare occasions but to tolerate it the rest of the time, and he seldom initiated any kind of intimate touching. Truth to be told, John was almost certain Sherlock found sex _boring_.

“It’s not something I’m into, but as I told you I am not alarmed or repulsed by sex,” Sherlock said, as if following John’s line of thought. “I wanted you to know that you could stay, if you wanted. Next time you happen to get aroused.”

John blinked at him. He opened his mouth, then closed it again with a slow exhale.

“You want to watch as I get myself off?” he finally asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “If you must put it so crudely.”

John had a sudden vision of Sherlock in a lab coat, sitting in a chair beside his bed with a pen and a notebook, watching intently as John lay naked on the bed. The image was equally ridiculous and terrifying.

“Would that be some kind of experiment?” he asked.

“No-o-o,” Sherlock drawled, after an almost imperceptible pause that told John the idea had been contemplated and still held a certain appeal. “No experiments. I’d be merely… observing.”

John frowned. “Collecting data, you mean.” 

Sherlock’s back stiffened, and John realised immediately how stupid an accusation that was. Sherlock could no more avoid gathering data as he watched than he could stop breathing for half an hour.

“That can hardly be helped,” Sherlock said in miffed tone. “It wouldn’t be for me, I just thought you might like the idea.” He waved a hand in the air dismissively. “Never mind. Forget it.” 

Sherlock bent back over his microscope and John stared dumbly at him, feeling an inexplicable twinge of disappointment.

“Why?” 

“Well, you don’t seem all too excited about the idea.” 

“No, I mean… why did you think I might like that?”

Sherlock slowly looked up from the microscope. He looked baffled by the question.

“Sexual activity reinforces a bond between partners. It’s _science_ , John. The amount of oxytocin released during orgasm stimulates social memory, linking the experience of physical pleasure with the person with whom it was shared.” He fidgeted on the chair. “Physical intimacy is, after all, an important part of a relationship. You said so yourself. And… I wouldn’t want to deprive you of that.”

It took John a few seconds to parse the Sherlock-speak. He suspected that Sherlock was trying to say something along the lines of “I think sharing something so intimate would bring us closer”. Not that Sherlock would ever phrase it that way, of course, but it seemed to boil down to that. It was almost… sweet.

“That’s almost sweet,” John said.

Sherlock scoffed. “If you’re just going to make light of it…”

“No, sorry, I... I wasn’t,” John interrupted, raising a hand. “It just caught me a bit by surprise. But… you seem to have given it some thought. I don’t see why we couldn’t try.”

Sherlock seemed to consider that and find it an acceptable answer. He gave John a brisk nod. 

“Good,” he said, before going back to ignoring John in favour of his microscope. John was fairly sure he wasn’t even looking at anything, but thought it wiser not to bring it up.

 

And so it happened that a few days later, during a bout of unusually enthusiastic snogging on the sofa, John broke the kiss with an embarrassed “Maybe I should…” and Sherlock interrupted by saying: “Yes. Let’s move to the bedroom.”

They hadn’t really discussed details. In fact, after the unexpected suggestion of that morning, they had discussed the matter not all, and John had begun to think Sherlock had either changed his mind or completely forgotten about it. Sherlock, probably mistaking John’s surprise for hesitation, leaned back a bit to give him some space.

“If you’re amenable, that’s it.”

“Yes!” It came out louder than John had intended. He cleared his throat. “Yes. Right. My bedroom?”

He moved towards the stairs, followed by Sherlock. They had slept together (just slept) only a handful of times, since Sherlock kept strange hours and John preferred to actually sleep at night. Each time it had been in Sherlock’s bed, so that Sherlock could slip in the living room or in the kitchen without tripping down the stairs if he felt like getting up to experiment in the middle of the night. It was strange to have Sherlock in his bedroom – oddly enough, it was about the only room he usually didn’t barge into.

“Are you going to keep your clothes on?” John asked as Sherlock stood by the door, barefoot but otherwise completely dressed. “I don’t mind either way,” he hastened to add, seeing Sherlock hesitate. “It’s just, you know. Could get a bit messy.” 

_And your clothes must be ridiculously expensive_ , he didn’t say.

“Right,” Sherlock said. He took off his shirt and draped it carefully on the back of the chair that was next to John’s bed. He took off his belt too, but kept his trousers on. The he sat back on the bed, arching an eyebrow at John.

“Okay,” John said – in answer to what, he wasn’t really sure. He started unbuttoning his shirt. He wasn’t looking at Sherlock but he could feel his eyes on him, could even picture the look of utter concentration on his face. John slid the shirt off his shoulders and let it fall on the floor. When he looked up, Sherlock’s gaze was fixed on his left shoulder. John rolled it a bit, almost reflexively, as if that gesture could shield it from Sherlock’s inspection. 

Sherlock beckoned him closer, took John’s wrist when he came to stand next to him and pulled him into his lap. 

“May I?” Sherlock asked. He didn’t need to explain what he was referring to.

John gave a mute sign of assent. Gently, Sherlock touched his fingers to John’s shoulder, tracing the contour of his scar. It wasn’t the first time Sherlock had seen it, but it was the first time he had touched it or looked at it so closely, and it felt weird to be subjected to such an examination. After a few seconds Sherlock lowered his hand, apparently satisfied.

“Go on, please” he said. It was posed as a polite request but it still sounded like an order with a _please_ tackled at the end as an afterthought. Trust Sherlock to be bossy even in the bedroom.

John kissed him one last time, a quick peck on the lips, before getting back to his feet. He shed his trousers and, after a slight pause, let his pants fall to the floor as well. He wasn’t fully hard yet, but it definitely wouldn’t take him long to get there. Sherlock, however, didn’t seem much interested in the state of John’s cock. Keeping his eyes on John’s face he scooted back on the mattress, leaned against the headboard, spread his legs and patted the space between his thighs. 

“Sit against my chest,” he instructed.

John crawled onto the bed and settled into the V of Sherlock’s long legs. He carefully leaned back. Sherlock’s chest was warm against his back. He could feel Sherlock’s heartbeats, the way his chest expanded with every breathe. It was… quite pleasant. Sherlock’s hands hovered uncertainly at John’s sides before settling over John’s chest. The touch was light, but grounding. Sherlock hooked his chin over John’s shoulder. 

“Er,” said John before remembering a thing. “Lube would probably be best. Second drawer.”

Sherlock twisted sideways and rummaged in the nightstand drawer for a bit before sitting back. He wordlessly uncapped the lube, took John’s left hand and squirted some over his fingers. For a few seconds John remained still. He rubbed his fingers against his thumb and over his palm, warming up the lube. Then, sensing Sherlock’s anticipation, he wrapped his hand around his cock. It felt… weird, doing this in front of someone who was merely going to watch. John closed his eyes, trying to pretend he was alone in his room. A bit difficult that, what with Sherlock glued to his back, basically breathing in his ear. He started to stroke himself slowly.

“How long does it usually take you to reach climax?”

The deep rumble of Sherlock’s voice almost startled John. He stilled his hand.

“That… really depends.” He started to move his hand again.

“Of course it does,” Sherlock said, sounding vaguely annoyed, “but you must have an idea of the average– ”

“Keep talking and it won’t be much longer.”

That shut Sherlock up for a bit.

“ _Oh_ ,” he said. “What should I say?”

“Doesn’t really matter.”

Sherlock was silent for another while. Then he said, matter-of-factly: “I forgot to tell you earlier, Molly texted me the results of the autopsy. She did find traces of strychnine in the body, so we’ll have to interrogate the sister.”

All right. John had thought anything would do, but that was possibly the least erotic thing he had ever heard in bed.

“On second thought, perhaps it’s best to avoid talking about autopsies. Or murders.”

Sherlock’s right hand twitched. 

“I see.”

A peal of laughter threatened to spill from John’s lips but he immediately swallowed it back. Anyone else wouldn’t have to be told, but then it was Sherlock – hardly _anyone_ , and somehow incredibly ignorant about things most people took for granted. John started stroking himself again, a little quicker and firmer. He became suddenly very aware of his own heavy breathing in the silent room, the sound of skin sliding over wet skin. Sherlock moved one hand higher up – probably a way to subtly monitor John’s heart rate – and in doing so his thumb brushed over John’s nipple. 

John shivered. 

“Do you stimulate your nipples when you masturbate?” Sherlock asked, because of course he would notice.

“Sometimes,” John gasped. “Not – often.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. Slowly, he dragged the pad of his thumb across John’s nipple. Again. And then again. John moaned, speeding up his hand. 

“You’re getting close,” Sherlock observed. His other hand was splayed over the lower part of John’s stomach.

John couldn’t reply. His ragged breathing now sounded obscenely loud to his ears. He bit his lower lip to stifle an embarrassing moan, feeling suddenly self-conscious. Sherlock’s hand shifted and he tapped a long finger against John’s mouth.

“Don’t do that,” he said. “I love the sounds you make.”

It shouldn’t have affected John the way it did. He’d heard similar words before – had uttered them himself – but this wasn’t Sherlock attempting a bit of dirty talk. It was an almost casual observation, a statement of a fact. The words sent a shiver of pleasure from John’s ear straight to his cock, and he came there and then, arching his back with a surprised gasp.

“Oh,” John breathed, as he spurted over his fist. 

Well. That had been quick. Sherlock petted John’s stomach while he shivered through the aftershock. They remained like that for a bit until John squirmed, looking down at his sticky hand. Ignoring Sherlock’s disapproving hum he wiped his hand on the bed sheet. 

As John shifted he pressed back against Sherlock’s crotch and realised that Sherlock was hard. That was new. He didn’t want to put any pressure on Sherlock but he felt it was fair to at least make an offer, so he squeezed Sherlock’s thigh and turned to face him.

“Would you like a hand with that?” he asked, in an offhand tone.

Sherlock shook his head. There was the hint of a blush on his cheeks which John found more than a bit endearing.

“No,” Sherlock said. “It’ll go away. Eventually.”

Difficult to tell if Sherlock considered his arousal a mere inconvenience that could easily be ignored or willed away (much like sleep, hunger or thirst when he was on a case), if he simply wasn’t comfortable with being touched by John, or something else entirely. In any case, John wouldn’t insist. He grabbed his pillow and lay down, tugging Sherlock close to him. Sherlock’s fingers lingered again over John’s scar – an absent-minded gesture this time, devoid of any investigative intent. 

“How long is your refractory period?” Sherlock asked. John huffed a laugh.

“No chance of a repeat performance tonight, if that’s what you’re asking. Sorry to disappoint.”

Sherlock shrugged, looking unconcerned. He remained silent and still for a while. It was only after John had closed his eyes and was already on the edge of sleep that he spoke again.

“Thank you.”

His expression was uncharacteristically earnest when John looked at his face. 

“Thank _you_ , I suppose. That might be worth repeating. If you didn’t find it completely off-putting, that is.”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock said, sounding amused.

“Good,” John said, and fell peacefully asleep a few minutes later.

**Author's Note:**

> I was bored and this happened.


End file.
